Knowing full well it was dangerous and stupid and a terrible idea, Crier made her way to Kinok’s study. He kept it locked, of course, while he was in the city, but Crier had once gone through a phase where she learned everything about how locks worked, to the point of designing her own unpickable locks simply for amusement. Locks were interesting, like the gears of a clock or like the workings of a mechanical toy. And unlike the locks Crier had designed, the lock on Kinok’s study was not unpickable.
So, using one of the bone hairpins keeping her braid in place, Crier picked it.
She felt a little thrill as the lock clicked open, a satisfying snick. Then she slipped through the door and into Kinok’s study.
The room was dark. There were no windows, only a dead hearth and a cold lantern. Crier lit the lantern, oil sputtering to life, and looked around. Writing desk, bookshelves, a tapestry on one wall to help insulate the underground room. Now that she was here, Crier didn’t know quite where to begin. She didn’t even know if her Design papers were going to be here at all.
She snooped around halfheartedly, too nervous to really touch anything. Kinok couldn’t know she’d been in here; it would make everything so much worse. Now that the restlessness and the excitement of taking some power back were beginning to fade away, Crier felt more foolish than anything. What was she doing, breaking into Kinok’s study in the dead of night? What could this possibly accomplish?
Embarrassed with herself, she glanced over the papers on Kinok’s desk one last time. His handwriting was hard to read, especially in the weak, flickering light of the lantern, especially when Crier’s heartbeat was pounding so loudly in her ears. She just wanted to get out of here, to go back to the safety of her bed. She was about to extinguish the lantern flame when something caught her eye.
There was a book open on the desk. At first glance, Crier had seen that it was an incredibly dense book about Zullan shipping and trade laws, and she’d paid it no mind. But when she’d leaned forward just now, the lantern light had caught on something: something written in the margin of the book in pale, spidery ink. Two words.
Yora’s heart.
It was everywhere, she saw. In the margins and in Kinok’s notes. Sometimes those two words were paired with others: Yora’s heart . . . PROTOTYPE?; Y’s heart . . . fuel, everlasting, no more rel.; Yora’s heart . . . t.w.? s.? Something in Crier stilled as she stared at the words. What did it mean? Who was Yora?
Somewhere beyond the windows, already lined with dawn, an owl cried out.
Startled, Crier dropped the book back onto the desk. A single page of notes fluttered out and, impulsively, she rolled it up and hastily stuffed it up her sleeve before slipping silently from the room. She blew out her lantern in the hall, its faint oil smoke swirling around her as she hurried away, feeling her way back to her room in the dark, rolling the mysterious, hastily scrawled words over and over again through her mind: Yora’s heart.
E. 900, Y. 4–5: T. Wren appointed as royal scientist; still young & unknown; all available accts (see: Handmaiden Primrose, Maker Oona) of the time note him as “fame-hungry,” desperate for recognition, obsessed with Q. Thea
personally appointed by Q. Thea—why?
obsession romantic/sexual in nature?
E. 900, Y. 10: Wren receives letter from Unknown Woman “H——.” (Name on letter obscured, no records of her in Academy files or any other accts from this period—purposeful? Even Wren, in his own writing, refers to her as “H.” Perhaps to protect her identity from future historians. Perhaps to protect himself.) “H——” being a former lover from Wren’s years at the Maker’s Academy—letter informs him that H—— has borne his child.
Excerpt from Wren’s personal journal (I):
“[ . . . ] the letter arrived [ . . . ] battered. Half the words bleeding from water stains. Nigh unreadable. Only a single word stood clear from the rest. Her name. The girl-child. My child. Siena.”
Wren goes to H— immediately. By his own account, he wished to spend time with the child Siena (b. sometime in Y. 9; now almost two years old) and raise her as his own.
Excerpts from Wren’s personal journal (II):
“[ . . . ] Siena has my eyes. My nose. Without a doubt she is mine; she